


Home Is Where You Are

by BEM



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: AU, Angst, Beca's poor, Chloe's rich, F/F, Northside/Southside, Rich/Poor sides AU, Romance, Sort of a homeless AU, bechloe - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:44:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7957459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BEM/pseuds/BEM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beca gets kicked out because her mom couldn't afford to have her around. Things go from bad to worse but rich, gorgeous and kind Chloe Beale absolutely refuses to let Beca go down any further.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Beca Mitchell**

                You're sitting on a swing at a park on the rich side of Barden. Anybody can tell it’s the rich side because the chains on the swings aren’t rusted, and the ground isn’t sprinkled with pieces of broken glass. You shift uncomfortably. You're out of place here with your ripped jeans and faded grey flannel.

                You laugh, out of place. The story of your life.

                Your mom had kicked you out of your house a few hours ago. She claimed that you were a waste of money that she never had in the first place. She said your dreams of being a musician weren’t going to get you anywhere. She said if she didn’t kick you out now, she’d be stuck supporting your “scrawny ass” forever.

                If you're honest, you're going to miss the house more than your own mother.  
  
                When you left you stuffed everything you could into your tattered, army green JanSport backpack. Your life now consists of identification papers, the money you saved from a few deejaying gigs, a sweater, jeans, and some underwear.

                You take out your phone and plug it into the small portable speaker you got as a present from Jesse on your birthday last year. You set it on the sand by your feet. The speaker took the spot in your bag where the few textbooks you owned should have, but you don’t care. Music is literally your entire life.

               The houses that surround the park are at least three times the size yours is. Was. Whatever. You’re always mesmerized when you see them. Which despite living an hour walk away–on the poor side–isn’t very often.

               It isn’t exactly the law to stay on the side you were born, but it’s a known fact that rich kids have a habit of beating up poor ones when they “cross” territories. It's not that the Southside kids can't defend themselves, it's just that they don't have the money to pay the hospital bills if things get out of hand. So instead of risking it, they run.

               You catch sight of some rich kids now. They're crossing through the park. The girls are in brand name outfits that you could never dream of affording, and the guys walk like they own the world. They all go to the same school you do but rich and poor kids rarely if ever mingle with each other. It’s weird for you to see them walking in a group, and goofing around just like you would with your less fortunate friends. 

               Suddenly, they change paths and your heart seizes in your chest when you realize that they’re heading right for you. You grip the chains tighter in your fists as you watch shadows turn to people. When they’re close enough to you that you can tell who they are, your eyes automatically roll. Of fucking course.

               “Hey Bumper, look who it is.” Tom Shepherd says, lips twisting into a gleeful smile.

               Tom is a cliche small town boy. A football player for the Barden Bulldogs, the mayor's son, that kind of cliche. You and Tom have never gotten along. Even less so after the two of you fought in freshmen year. He broke your nose and chipped your tooth because he was bored. He walked away with a warning. You walked away looking like Lloyd Christmas. You were tempted to make a huge deal of it, but Mayor Shepard shut you up by offering to pay your medical bills and dental care.

               Bumper sneers, "what're you doing here Mitchell? Get lost scrounging for dinner?"

               You clench your jaw looking away, but when you do, you make contact with stunning blue eyes that you know can only belong to one person: Chloe Beale.

                _Wow_ , you think. Even her eyes are richer in color than yours.

               You've always liked Chloe. Everyone likes Chloe. She's the kind of girl that's nice to everyone. The kind of girl that'd get chewed up and spit out after one day in the Southside.

               “Cut it out, Tom.” Chloe grinds out.

               Tom’s right in front of you now. You swallow hard. You know anything that happens is completely your own fault. You decided to come to this side of town. No one made you do it.

               Tom pouts, “oh, come on Chlo’, we’re just having some–” he kicks your speaker sending your phone flying. You hear it ding off the pole behind you. “–fun.”

               You look up at him doing your best to keep a bored expression on your face. On the inside your boiling with rage. “I think you should listen to your girlfriend, Tommy.”

               "He's not–" Chloe starts, but Bumper cuts her off.

               “Well, I think you should go back to where you came from.” Bumper retorts smugly.

               Behind Bumper, a snobby looking blonde crosses her arms over her chest. You faintly remember her throwing up at the school’s talent show fundraiser. She stands beside Chloe looking a little bit uncomfortable but doesn’t speak up.

               “Let me handle this,” Tom says, pointing at himself like he’s God.

               “No,” you say, making all eyes turn to you. “Let me.”

               You jump off the swing kicking Tom in the dick as you do. Grabbing your backpack, you book it the hell out of there. There’s shouting behind you, when you look over your shoulder, you see Tom rolling on the ground, his hands clutching at his groin. Bumper leans over him, asking him if he’s okay. You start to laugh but it dies as quick as it forms in your throat. Chloe's watching you with a smile dancing across her lips. You shake your head and pump your legs harder.

               Once you're far enough away from the park, you reach into your back pocket to grab your…fuck. You left your phone at the park. Fucking awesome. Now you can’t call Jesse to pick you up.

               You run a hand through your chocolate locks going over your options. You can walk to Jesse’s house, but that’ll take too long. You could take the bus, but you don’t have money to waste on it. So, really, your only choice is to wait it out, and hope that Tom and Bumper were decent enough human beings to leave your phone alone.

               You sit down on the curb, letting out a deep sigh. Your fingers twitch, you wish you had some music to distract you.

               You have never taken a music lesson in your life. You’ve never even owned an instrument but when you started music in elementary school you fell in love.

               Anything you put effort into, you were good at. Mrs. Parker, your music teacher, saw potential in you. She let you come in during lunches and sometimes after school so you could practice your tiny heart out. She was the one that taught you that music was in more than just instruments. It was in the chimes that caught wind on Mrs. Lawson's door. It was in the sound of the rain slapping against the pavement. It was in the rhythmic beat of your heart.

               Currently, music is between two sticks in your hand and the ground in front of you. You tap out any random tune that pops into your head. Sometimes you make up your own beats. You don’t really play in front of anyone. You know if you want to make a career out of it you’ll have to, but for now, you keep your talents hidden.

                _“Wow."_

               You freeze, head snapping up. Your eyes connect with the same blue ones that captivated you earlier. You don’t know what to say, so you blurt out that you're sorry because it seems like the safest option.

               Chloe laughs, and you find that there's music in it too. “For what? Teaching Tom a lesson? He deserved it.”

               “Um,” you stare at her trying to come up with something else to say. “Did you follow me here?”

               “No, actually,” Chloe sits down next to you, smoothing out her light blue dress as she does. “I live here.”

               “Oh, right.” You forgot you were still on the Northside. You look over your shoulder to see a huge, white, mini-mansion behind you. Five times the size of your old one. “Nice house.”

               Chloe smiles, taking the sticks from your hands making you look up. "You play?"

               "Yeah, sort of."

               "Sort of? Weren't you just tapping out _Fool in The Rain_?"

               "I was trying to, yeah." You say, surprised she was able to guess what song you had been doing a half-ass job playing. "You know you're music."

               "I more than know it." Chloe gestures with her head towards her house. Her curls bounce, "want to come inside? Our whole basement is full of instruments."

               You swallow hard, Chloe just described your heaven. But you can't go in, because you're you, and she's rich. So you shake your head no and stutter out an excuse about going back to the park to grab your phone.

               "Oh yeah, almost forgot. I was going to give it to you at school but..." Chloe reaches into her backpack and pulls out your phone. "Here. I’m pretty sure it still works, don't think I can say the same for your speaker though."

               "Thanks.” You run your thumb over the crack across the screen before clicking it on to check if it still works. A picture of you, Jesse, and Amy sitting on a curb, mid-laugh with coke bottles in your hands, glows to life. It's your favorite picture.

               "So now that you have your phone, do want to come in?" Chloe asks.

               You bite your lip, does she really not understand? You're not even one of the southside kids that can pass as north ones. You're pure southside stock. "Um, I don't think you know who I am."

               Chloe tilts her head a little, "of course I know who you are. You're Beca Mitchell, you're more bad-ass than the mayor's son."

               "No, I mean-"

               "I know what you mean Beca," Chloe says, interrupting you. "It doesn't matter to me what side you're from. So, are you coming in or not?"

               She stands up, you follow her like the two of you are tethered. You walk up to the huge front door and she’s made the decision for you. You're going in, and you're nervous while Chloe rummages through her bag for her keys.

               "Are your parents home?" You blurt out before you have the chance to think about what that sounds like.

               Chloe stops her search and looks over with a small smile on her face. You can’t decide whether it’s pity or just curiosity. "My dad will be home soon but right now he's not. Why?"

               "I don't know, they might not, you know, approve of me." You shrug trying to make it seem casual.

               Chloe rolls her eyes and goes back to looking for her keys. When she finds them, she unlocks the door and holds it open for you. You take a slight step back, ready to bolt but stop when she gives you a reassuring smile. "Come on."

  
               You follow her in, trying not to gape at the high ceiling of the foyer and the art that hangs on the walls. You know just by the quality of them that they’re the real. Nothing like the second-hand, cheap imitation art your mom has up in the living room. Chloe kicks off her sandals, you bend to take off your ripped Vans. For the first time in your life, you embarrassed by them. By who you are.

               Chloe reaches around you to lock the door. You feel the heat radiate from her body and you try not to enjoy it as much as your body wants to.

               "So, do you want something to eat first or do you want to go downstairs?" She asks.

               You shrug, "what do you want to do?"

               "I'm asking what you want," Chloe says back, patiently.

               "Downstairs?" You'd choose music over food any day.

               "Okay, awes." Chloe grabs your hand, tugging you along the hall and down some stairs.

               She lets go, and you're standing in a large carpeted room with literally every instrument you can think of. They line the shelves on the wall: banjo, sitar, xylophone, drums. Holy shit. It’s like you've died and gone to heaven.

                _"Dude,"_ it breathes out of you in utter amazement.

               Chloe lets out a small laugh, probably at the look of pure awe on your face. "It's like you've never seen-" she cuts herself off realizing that you actually _haven’t_ seen anything like this before. She shakes her head at her own mistake and asks what you’re going to play for her.

               You scan the room. You want something that’ll knock Chloe off her feet as much as this room has knocked you off yours. Your eyes land on a white, grand piano. You know she’s probably heard people play the piano before. Maybe she plays it herself, but you’ve always loved the way the keys feel under your fingers and it’s been years since you last played one. And never in your life, one as beautiful and well kept as this one.

               Walk over to it, you run your fingers on top of the keys giving Chloe a suggestive look. You've become emboldened by the atmosphere of instruments. Chloe giggles.

               You sit down on the bench in front of the piano, Chloe sits down beside you. Your thighs press together. Squeezing your eyes shut, you swallow hard. You don't want to admit to yourself how good it feels to have someone this close to you. Your heartbeat picks up, beating every first, second, third, and fourth beat instead of it’s usual first, third beat. You don’t know if it’s because of how close you are to Chloe or because this is the first time in a long time you’ve played in front of a stranger.

               Keeping your eyes shut, pushing away the nerves, you let your fingers take over. You do this every time you play an instrument. It allows you to put everything you’ve ever felt into the song you're playing. Mrs. Parker said that’s what made you so good. When you play, you make people believe the song. Believe the words, the emotions.

**I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord**  
**But you don't really care for music, do ya?**  
**It goes like this the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift**  
**The baffled king composed it hallelujah**

               Your fingers work across the keys to make up for the four other hallelujah's in the song. Before you can pick up where you left off, Chloe takes over.

_Your faith was strong but you needed proof_  
_You saw her bathing on the roof_  
_Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you_  
_She tied you to her kitchen chair_

               Your fingers strain to keep playing as Chloe's voice rises with emotion.

_She broke your throne_  
_She cut your hair_  
_And from your lips, she drew that hallelujah_

               Chloe stops for the other hallelujah's just like you had and then begins again when the note’s right.

_Maybe I've been here before_  
_I've seen this room_  
_and I've walked this room_  
_I used to never long before I knew you_  
_I've seen your flag on your marble arch_  
_Love is not a victory march_  
_It's a cold and it's a_ bro-ken hallelu _-_

               Chloe's voice cracks with an overflow of emotion and you hit the wrong key, your eyes snap open.

               "That was amazing." Chloe breathes out as if she can’t believe the two of you just did that. You don’t know if you can either.

               Your laughs as breathless as Chloe’s voice sounds. "Your voice is so...beautiful." _Everything about you is._

               You force yourself to look at her. Goosebumps rise on your arms when you see that she’s looking at you too. Except it isn’t with the hesitant expression your sure is on your face. She’s looking at you with so much intensity it makes something thrum low in your stomach and spread through your chest. Your eyes drop to her lips. So pink. They part slightly, the air coming out tickles your face. When you look back at her eyes, you notice her cheeks are tinted the cutest shade of rose.

               A phone buzzes making you both jump. Your knee bangs off the piano. The moment’s over.

               You pull your phone out of your pocket to check it. It’s a text from your mother. You don’t know if you’re glad that she broke the moment or completely pissed off. **Tell your friends to stop coming around here.**

               You frown.

               "Who is it?" Chloe asks.

               You shake your head slightly, you definitely don’t want Chloe to know about your current homelessness. You spout the first lie that comes to your head. "My, uh, boss."

               "You work?" Chloe asks, sounding a little surprised. It rubs you the wrong way. Her surprise, the text from your mom, and the confusing moment that you two just shared spikes your anger to something irrational.

               "Oh and that’s surprising to you because I'm poor right?"

               Chloe's eyes widen, "no…no, Beca, that's not what I meant."

               You squeeze your eyes shut. You know that's not what Chloe meant. If she was like that, you wouldn't be sitting here with her right now. She wouldn’t be looking at you with so much genuine concern on her face.

               Her hand lands on your arm before she asks, “who really texted you?"

               Not wanting to answer the question, you stand up from the bench making Chloe's hand drop. "I should go. Thanks for," you gesture to the piano. "Thanks for this."

               You grab your bag from the floor feeling Chloe’s eyes follow your every movement. When you walk past her, she reaches out and grabs your wrist, spinning you around. "Beca, if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask." She bites her lip. "And I'm sorry about what happened at the park today."

               You nod, "yeah."

               She tugs you closer and presses a soft kiss to your cheek, “see you.”

               You go upstairs, half expecting and half wanting Chloe to follow you up but she doesn't. You walk the hallways certain that you’re heading towards the exit but when you see a stove and a fridge you know somewhere along the way, you’ve gotten lost.

               "Beca Mitchell?"

               Your whole body seizes, you have to stop yourself from putting your hands up in surrender. You know that voice all too well. Your brain has begun to associate it with getting arrested--mostly for fights you didn't start. You know that voice from years of getting lectured and being told “you’re a smart kid, Beca. I just don’t understand why you insist on getting in trouble all the time.”

               "Sheriff Beale." You say, placing a name to the voice. You shake your head mad at for not making the connection sooner. Chloe Beale is Sheriff Beale's daughter. Fucking duh.

               You turn to face the man who’s standing in front of the stove. He’s got the muscles of a man who’s been training to be Sheriff all his life. He’s got short-ish hair the same color of Chloe’s and a shadow of a beard.

               "You're not–” he squints “–this isn't you breaking into my house, right?"

               "No sir," you say, adjusting your backpack strap. You never knew your father. He left your mother when you were too young to remember. If you were to choose someone who is even the teeniest bit like a father to you, it’d be Sheriff. Which makes you even angrier for not knowing that Chloe's his daughter. "Your daughter invited me over to play music for her."

               The sheriff laughs, loud and hearty. "Just like her mom. Are you on you're way out?"

               You nod.

               "Chloe didn't invite you to stay for dinner?" He asks. You shake your head. "Would you like to?"

               "Um, no…thank you."

               He stares at you for a moment, "all right then. Stay out of trouble."

               "Sure," You hesitate for a second not knowing which way to go to leave.

               "It's all the way down the hall, to your right." Sheriff Beale says with a smirk, he turns back to the stove.

               You bow, nod and then shake your head and roll your eyes at how awkward you’re being.

               When you've finally managed to find the exit and leave, you’re certain that this is the last time you’ll ever step foot in the Beale residence.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley


	2. Chapter 2

**Chloe Beale**

                Your favorite memory of your childhood starts off bad.

_You wake up with sweat running from your hairline down to your chest. Your screaming at the top of your lungs. The shrill sound slices through the quiet. You can’t remember what’s frightened you this much and you don’t get a chance to try and recall it. Because your mother’s there now, her arms encircle you, drawing you into her chest. Your dad’s standing behind her, looking at you with so much fatherly concern, tears start falling down your cheeks._

_“What’s wrong, baby girl?” Your mom asks, rubbing your back in soothing circles._

_“What happened, sweetheart?” Your dad asks, in his serious but kind deputy voice._

_You can’t answer. You can’t do anything but squeeze your mother tighter. Your tiny self trying to absorb some of your mom’s calmness._

_“Nothing’s here, Chlo’. You’re safe.” Your dad says. You want to believe him but your mind just won’t let you._

_After you’ve stopped crying, your mom tries to move but you refuse to let her let you go. It’s midnight, and your eight years old, and your mom shouldn’t be carrying you anywhere anymore but she does anyway. She picks you up off the bed, brings you to the living room, and then hands you over to your dad. You cling to him._

_Music starts to filter in the room. It’s the song your mother always sings to herself when she’s doing the laundry or making dinner or grocery shopping. Sometimes, your dad plays it on his guitar. Your too distraught to remember the name of it. Your dad sways you slowly back and forth and you know you’re safe. Your mother sings and rubs your back and you know you're loved. Your heart slows_ to _its regular pace and your father whispers that he won’t let anyone hurt you, ever. You believe him._

_Eventually, he sets you down on the couch and you start to drift off. The last thing you see before you fall asleep is your parents, slow dancing in the middle of your living room, dressed in their pajamas._

                At thirteen you recount this memory to your parents over dinner one night.

_“I’m surprised you still remember that.” Your dad tells you. He finished work over an hour ago but he’s still dressed in his sheriff's uniform. You and your mom like to joke that he’d wear that thing to bed if he could. Your dad’s proud of his promotion. He’d tell the world about it if he could._

_You think of the years of sun-soaked memories, of chilly winters, of happy Christmas’s. All your memories with your family are good ones but for some reason, none of them top the memory of that night. You tell your parents that between bites of your mom’s homemade mac and cheese._

_Your mother smiles at you. Her honey-blonde hair doesn’t have a strand of gray in it. Her blue eyes are still as blue as they were eight years ago. Maybe as blue as they’ve been her entire life. “I remember that night. Your scream nearly gave us heart attacks.”_

_You laugh, “I was scared!”_

_“You never did tell us why.” Your dad says._

_“I don’t remember.” You say. “But that’s not why I brought it up. You played a song that night. I don’t really remember it and I haven’t heard it since.”_

_Big cheesy grins spread across your parent’s lips at the same time. You smile too because you think it’s cute._

_“_ Tiny Dancer _by Elton John.” Your mother says, her voice dripping with nostalgia. “I fell in love with your father to that song.”_

 _“You never told me that!” You complain. You absolutely_ love _love. You love hearing stories of your grandparents and aunts and uncles falling in love. You can’t believe you’ve never thought to ask your parents how they fell in love. “Tell me the story.”_

_Your dad laughs, “well, okay. As you know I grew up on the other side of town. My family wasn’t nearly as well off as your mothers were. I had to play at bars and coffee shops every night, just to raise enough money for me to stay in college.”_

_"One night,” your mother says taking over. “My friends and I decided to go to a bar. They don’t card on the south side, not that you're allowed to go drinking anytime soon.” You shake your head, wanting your mom to continue. “When we entered, the first person I saw was your father. He was sitting on a stool on top of the stage with his guitar in his lap. The bar was crowded with all sorts of men but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Then he started to play_ Tiny Dancer _and in that very second I knew that I’d marry him.”_

_“But how’d you know?”_

_“I just did. He was so honest in the way he played. My heart stopped when he started singing. I just knew. And hey, I was right, wasn’t I?” She smiles at your dad all warm and love-soaked._

_“What about you, dad? When did you know?”_

_“After I finished my shift for the night. You mother had bought me a drink, and we talked for a long time. Then I offered to walk her home. About half-way through it started to pour. I wanted so badly to wait it out but your mother refused. She wanted to walk in the rain. So, we did. She was laughing and dancing, and eventually, I was too. We were drenched but it wasn’t nearly as miserable as I thought it’d be. I smiled the whole way back to my house. Then the next day we were both sick and miserable, but it didn't matter because we were both still smiling. That was it. That’s how I knew your mother was the one for me.”_

_You grin, you can’t wait to find someone that’ll make you smile the way your parents smile at each other._

                At sixteen, Beca Mitchell kicks the mayor's son in the balls, plays the piano for you like she was born to do so, and then leaves you breathless in your basement without so much as a glance backward.

                Maybe it’s too soon to tell but you think you’ve found that person.


	3. Chapter 3

**Beca Mitchell**

                For two months you live behind the boarded-up strip mall along a forgotten Southside road. 

                In the beginning, Genevieve takes pity on you. She's a sixty-year-old woman who's been homeless for the last ten. She tells you who to trust, who you shouldn't mess with. She shares what little food she has with you. Most importantly, she keeps you away from the men that salivate when they see you. The ones that refer to you as _fresh_ - _meat_. But as the nights get colder, generosity is one of the first things to freeze up. You don't mind, you hated taking food from an old lady anyway.

                When the food stops coming in, your body begins to run on hate. You spend days in the crook between two dumpsters, glaring at the open field of yellowed grass. You’re in some sort of meditative state, no one can touch you. You glare at the field and you hate your mother. To keep you going, you fantasize all the different ways you'd kill her if you got the chance. The cold, the hunger, the detachment from reality has made you a little crazy.

                When you can’t take it. When you're jaw hurts too much from the constant clattering of your teeth. When you’re too afraid to bend your fingers because they might fall off. When your stomach stops growling and all you feel is numb. You begin to do things. Bad things. You let men touch you. You close your eyes and dream of music and you let them hit you. You do things for food that you seal in airtight boxes and hide away in the deepest corner of your brain. On those days you wish your mother would have killed you before you could breathe your first breath. 

                Today, you wake up with a fresh blanket of snow. It coats the ground, the dumpsters, you. It's late afternoon, the sun frozen in mid-descend. You've started sleeping in the morning because you're too scared to at night.

                You cannot handle the snow. Brushing it off you with stiff fingers, you grab your backpack and tentatively get to your feet. Your ribs hurt, they might be broken. The world sways, your lightheaded all the time now.

                You begin your walk around Barden. Sometimes people give you spare change, 5 cents, 10 if you’re lucky. You get more money from Southside people than you do from the North, it’s nice but it’s never enough to fill you. You may never be full again.

                "'Ey girl," somebody shouts. A man cruises beside you in a white truck. He sneers at you with exactly three teeth in his mouth. “Want to get in ‘ere? I’ll take ya for a quick ride.” Comments like this have become the norm.

                "No thanks,” you say, quietly. Two months ago, you’d deck this guy in the face. Now, he’d snap you like a twig.

                “C’mon, you look cold. I can keep ya warm,” he winks.

                You turn, walking into the nearest grocery store. Immediately, the air inside warms you. It kisses your cheek, presses you to its chest, and runs its fingers soothingly through your hair. It saves you and you nearly pass out. You’ve been avoiding going into grocery stores because they’re reminders of the food you don’t have. Now that you’re in it, you doubt you’ll ever leave.

                People give you wary glances, but your eyes are locked on the pyramid of apples in front of you. You run your finger over the hard, glossed skin of it. The feeling tingles in your finger. You imagine crushing your teeth into it. Imagine the rush of liquid and soft apple in your mouth. The flavor. _God_. Looking around to see if people are watching, you slip the apple into your sweater. It’s yours now. You get to eat it. Get to _taste_ it.

                You turn to leave. If you stay you’ll want to steal more things.

                The automatic doors slide open, the cold air burns your cheeks.

                Then your being spun around. It’s too much. Too intense.

                The apple falls from your pocket, bits, and pieces bouncing up from the floor. You frown, then you’re falling too. You hit the tiles a second after the apple you never got to taste does.   

* * *

 

 _Come home_  
_Come home_  
_'Cause I've been waiting for you_  
_For so long_  
_For so long_  
_And right now there's a war between the vanities_  
_But all I see is you and me_  
_The fight for you is all I've ever known_  
_So come home_

                You’re on feathers, and clouds, and dreams when you exist again. Everything’s black and there’s music here. Music from an instrument too beautiful to be real. You haven’t listened to music in so long, it eases the ache.

 _Everything I can't be_  
_Is everything you should be_  
_And that's why I need you here_  
_Everything I can't be_  
_Is everything you should be_  
_And that's why I need you here_  
_So hear this now_

                There are sadness and tears where you exist again. Don’t cry, you want to say to the instrument. Your own eyes heat up. Don’t cry, you think louder.  

 _Come home_  
_Come home_  
_'Cause I've been waiting for you_  
_For so long_  
_For so long_  
_And right now there's a war between the vanities_  
_But all I see is you and me_  
_The fight for you is all I've ever known_  
_So come home_

                The songs end, the instrument stops, and it’s like going through an endless maze at the place you exist again. You don’t know where to go. Don’t even know where you are.  Something—hands, fingers—touch your face, brush under your eyes.

                “You’re okay,” a soft voice says from somewhere above the clouds. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you ever again.”

                The words slip into your ears and snuggle against your heart. Those words that you never let yourself wish for because it hurt too much to. They save you in a different way than the grocery store had, but they save you just the same.

                You don’t want to wake up, why would you? You’re finally warm, finally safe, and there’s music here. Music that you’ve denied yourself for two eternity long months. You missed it more than you did food sometimes. Why would you wake up now that it’s here? Now that you finally have it back. Why would you ever wake up again?

                “Please, Beca,” the voice begs, a finger trails down your cheek. “Come back to me.”

                The voice that gave music back to you, pleads.

                _For you,_ you think. _For you, I’d wake up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come Home - One Republic


End file.
